Praetor Jarel Craith met General Tacito Fabian at the temporary encampment of his legion, the Venturian 6th, which sprawled out under the long afternoon shadow of the towers of Taracon.

  They sat at the General’s table, within the large command tent at the center of the camp.

  Staring at an atlas of Volos which was in a rapid state of flux.

  Again.

  The General drew his bushy brows together, his mouth twisted in a frown. He had his elbow on the table with his chin resting on his meaty fist.

  “What exactly is happening here,” he said.

  The expression on Jarel Craith’s face provided the General no confidence. He simply stared, unbelieving, as again the level range of the Monsters all over the continent leapt upward for a third time.

  Jarel blinked. Shook his head slightly. He realized his mouth hung open, so he closed it.

  “I am at a loss, truly,” he said, in a small voice.

  The General was quiet for a few moments. His gaze shifted to Jarel’s face, examining the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, the pronounced widow’s peak of his long gray hair.

  “They told me you were younger,” he said.

  Jarel recoiled inwardly at the words. He would prefer not to tell General Fabian he’d had his life force ruthlessly withdrawn by a pair of sapient swords. It wouldn’t inspire confidence. And Jarel felt he wasn’t inspiring much of that to begin with.

  He cleared his throat, corrected his posture. “I would suggest it is related to the cause of the Blight, the one called Redmane. But I lack the information required to state such with certainty. My Sicari defeated Redmane and his accomplices at an Abyssal Well. But they may yet be at large. It depends upon their faculty with Abyssal travel, which I’m afraid I cannot estimate.”

  “So I should tell my men to watch their backs, because there’s a barbarian god-king out there waiting to resurface,” said the General.

  “I suppose it would be prudent to do so.”

  “Any idea where he might pop up?”

  Jarel shook his head. “The best I can do is use my Sicari to keep watch over the Abyssal Wells we know of. The one north of his Faction’s Sanctuary, and another in a place called Asgoph.”

  “Then I suggest you find the rest of them with haste,” said General Fabian. “I’d rather not be ambushed by a Class One Primordial Divinity, whether or not it’s fully awake.”

  He gave Jarel Craith a hard look while he spoke, and the Praetor did his best to bear it stoically.

  “You let me know when you have that handled,” said Fabian. Then he rose from his chair, a tower of muscle clad in a general’s lorica and armored kilt, and turned to leave the command tent.

  But he stopped halfway, half-turned back to Jarel Craith.

  “And another thing. Just so you’re aware. I did not know Mecia Porsena personally, but she had strong friendships in Numantia. People are already asking questions about you. Questions I think you’d better be prepared to answer to their satisfaction.”

  Jarel Craith gave the General a small nod. “Of course,” he said.

  This time he kept the fear off of his expression. But it felt like a cold steel blade in his heart nonetheless.

  Combining Skills was a task for the Abyss, but combining his wings was something he could do anywhere.

  He did so after arising from the Abyssal Well near the city of Taracon, from whence he would travel to the Skyrend Peaks. And since it would be a long flight, he reckoned it would be a good idea to optimize.

  The wings of the Manticore had great explosive power. They were excellent for taking off quickly, and for maneuvering around in the air. The wings of the Sphinx were efficient, with comb-like feathers that made them silent as a ghost. And the wings of the Gryphon were strong and enduring, capable of sustained soaring at the greatest heights.

  Redmane crafted a pair of wings which would perform both the first and third functions. Strong enough to maneuver well if needed, wide enough for passive soaring without too much energy expenditure.

  If they didn’t perform to his liking, he could always make adjustments on the fly.

  Before he took wing, he gave Taracon one last glance.

  It was late in the day. The city cast a long shadow over the legion encampment.

  He’d like to go down there and burn it to the ground.

  But not now. Soon.

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  Redmane jumped and beat his wings, taking flight to the northwest, wings beating with powerful strokes as he ascended above the landscape. It took a while to find an updraft, but soon enough he was high above the land and soaring toward the distant Skyrend Peaks.

  They wouldn’t come into view until tomorrow morning. But the moment they did, they would be unmistakable.

  He flew as the sun set behind him, and throughout the night. And up there in the clouds, he found there was much to occupy his mind.

  He wondered how his comrades were doing.

  He thought about Flora.

  He envisioned a future with the Numantians vanquished and driven away, their city sacked and razed. Redmane would destroy their Astral Bridge. Send a message back to Numantia itself; come at your own peril.

  A brazen thing to say to an empire of thousands of worlds.

  But it had to be said.

  Redmane was a child of this world. Perhaps he and Flora were its first children. The world had broken and remade them, it had done them harm. But it was their home nonetheless. And it was a home worth protecting.

  His thoughts wandered through the night, even as his wings kept a steady course. When dawn broke over the mountains to the west, Redmane knew he’d flown in the right direction.

  The Skyrend Peaks resembled a row of jagged teeth against the glow of the sunrise. They were tall and slender for mountains, suggesting some explosive seismic event in a time long past. As if a titan had punched the earth, spiking up a thicket of immense daggers of stone around the impact. Early morning mist shrouded the valleys between those daggers, and their peaks reached into the clouds.

  Redmane began a gentle descent when the mountains came into view. He’d have to scout the entire area from above, for he knew not if the Seal of the Kirin dwelled in the highest places here or in the lowest. High would have been his first guess, but perhaps the Five Heroes would have suspected a seeker would search there.

  It was going to be a long search.

  But no sooner did he descend to where he could clearly see the foothills, did a distraction present itself.

  A small Numantian legion camp.

  It hid right at the edge of the treeline, but Redmane’s keen eyes spotted it regardless. At the moment it looked empty, suggesting the legionnaires were elsewhere. Which was unusual for such an early hour, unless they were embarked upon a mission of some sort.

  Redmane spied their footprints curving northward from the camp, to get to a road.

  For a moment he hesitated. He was looking for the Seal, not for a pack of soldiers. But curiosity overcame him. He veered to the north to see where this road would take him.

  It began as naught but a hunter’s trail, but within a few miles it joined to a larger road, one clearly made for traffic. Wide enough for a wagon or coach. This road wound its way through a valley and then climbed, ascending from the foothills of the Skyrend Peaks up into their heart.

  And there, as Redmane banked around the corner of a sheer cliffside, a village appeared beneath him.

  You have entered Zone: Magas Village

  Tasks:

  Slay Burgomaster Koh

  Slay Sheriff Kard

  Slay Almoner Szent

  Tasks Completed: 2/3

  Two out of three tasks completed already. Redmane raised an eyebrow at that.

  He directed his attention down to Magas Village, a town of goodly size sheltered in a circular valley. The village was made mostly of stone cottages with thatched roofs and a few timber-framed structures, all arranged around a central square.

  It had seen better days. Smoke rose from scattered fires throughout. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and fear.

  The sounds of battle reached Redmane even at his height, a mix of shouts, roars, and the clash of weapons echoing off the mountains all around them. Numantian legionnaires fought the native beastmen—creatures with the manes of lions, horns of goats, and eyes burning with righteous savagery.

  Squads of legionnaires moved through the streets of the village in disciplined formations, their shields a wall of silvery steel, spears glinting under the light of the dawn. The beastmen fought fiercely, pushing back against the organized ranks of the Numantians. But it was clear they would ultimately be on the losing side. Their corpses lie strewn about the village in much greater and ever-growing numbers.

  Redmane appeared to have arrived at a pivotal moment. The opposing forces had found a point of equilibrium between them, which was to say that the beastmen still alive down there had gathered together to present a united front, mimicking the Numantians to the best of their ability. Their losses stymied, the natives now attempted to push back against their invaders.

  The central square was where the fighting was most intense.

  There the battle raged around a toppled statue. Numantian legionnaires pressed forward, shields up, spears thrusting and beastmen met them head-on, using horns and claws and the sheer mass of their bodies to disrupt the formation.

  The beastman leader’s was unmistakable amidst the chaos— he stood head and shoulders taller than the rest, and his thick, black mane and curving goat horns framed a face of grim determination; in one hand, he effortlessly wielded a massive, two-handed battle-axe, its broad blades painted red with fresh blood. Amidst the clashing weapons and desperate cries he moved, his voice booming commands as he guided his warriors.

  Sheriff Kard

  Monster Type: Mongrel

  Level 212

  Sheriff Kard targeted the flank of a Numantian shield wall, swinging his axe to break their line. Its impact sent a shockwave through the entire squad, the force of it lifted the nearest legionnaires off their feet, sending them flying backward. Shields and spears scattered as the soldiers tumbled through the air, landing in a heap several paces away.

  The breach in the line created an opening and the beastmen surged forward, swarming over the broken formation to savage its remainder with tooth and claw and horn and hoof.

  Redmane grinned at the sight of that.

  Nearby, another group of legionnaires attempted to encircle the beastman leader. With a grunt, he swung his axe, the heavy thud of steel on steel echoing through the air as he parried and retaliated, backpedaling from the steady advance of Numantian spears.

  The Sheriff appeared to understand his predicament.

  Kard continued to fight admirably, his focus on turning the tide in favor of his people, even as more and more squads of Numantians closed in on the village square from the streets around it, having dispatched whatever resistance they had encountered on their way.

  The Numantians clearly understood that Kard presented their most important target. They devoted their full attention to him, several squads closing in to surround him, to close the noose.

  When they brought him down, the rest would fall with ease.

  Once again Redmane found himself hesitant to get involved. He ought to carry on from here, let these small conflicts play out as they will, so that he may focus on his true goal and win the most important battle of them all.

  But it felt different now.

  The beastmen were truly his kin. He wished he’d understood that earlier. And it was no simple thing to watch one’s own kind be brought low, however valiantly they fought.

  And he had new weapons to test…

  Redmane tucked his wings in and dove down toward the village.

  PATREON